


Friendshipgifts

by GoldenThreads



Category: Marvel (House of M), New Mutants, X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Illustrated, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-28
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2017-12-16 10:38:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/861099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenThreads/pseuds/GoldenThreads
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An alien romcom in the House of M. </p><p>When a clingy alien refugee crashes to Earth, the lives of the teachers at the NMLI suddenly become a lot more complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On a routine mission with SWORD, Doug resorts to what he does best: talk.

“So I heard the House of Magnus wants you for another diplomatic mission this weekend,” Shan poured them both another round from the coffee pot in the teacher’s lounge, a knowing smirk twisting her lips. While the free period they shared on Friday mornings was technically set aside for lesson planning, rare was the day they didn’t spend it gossiping instead. Her duty as Headmistress demanded she keep tabs on everything her teachers were up to, but she and Professor Ramsey went way back and she more than trusted him to keep his class in order.

“Don’t remind me.” Doug slumped in his chair, the exhaustion of a long week finally catching up with him. When he held out a hand for his cup of coffee, Shan pulled it just out of reach.

“Please don’t tell me you’re thinking of saying no!” She knew he wouldn’t dream of it — he hemmed and hawed before every mission but never let a chance pass him by. And besides, letting other agencies borrow him made the school look _wonderful_. Shan kept a collection of newspaper clippings detailing all of the teachers’ exploits to show to prospective students, and she quite enjoyed getting to namedrop so many alien races in her recruitment spiels.

“Of course not, I just…I don’t like taking time off from the school. My job’s here.”

“You hate it here.” Shan smiled and shook her head when he tried to protest. “Don’t worry, you hide it well—the students don’t suspect a thing. But I know you too well, and I remember your wilder days.”

“Oh god,” he groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. “I thought we agreed never to talk about college again.”

“Go on your silly space adventure and we won’t have to.”

*

On the school website, the beginning of his bio read:

_Douglas Aaron Ramsey has mastered nearly every language on Earth. Ever since his powers manifested at 13, he has spent his summers visiting the most remote areas of the planet on linguistic preservation research. Imagine how thankful those poor elderly sapiens are, getting to speak their native tongues one last time, finding hope when they feared their languages would die with them. Blah blah blah._

Doug assumed the bio still said something like that, at least. He hadn’t actually read it in a few years, not after a fight with the school publicist who refused to edit it into something far less demeaning. Shan had never seen him quite so ready to start throwing punches, but for all her effort she couldn’t get the publicist to back down either.

He hated it, all of it. It wasn’t community service, and it was a heck of a long way from _hope_ — just him with a bunch of languages in his head that weren’t even his own and everyone else acting like he was some great authority. Linguists worldwide wrote to him for answers to obscure questions, begged him to submit papers about those dying words, and offered increasingly distinguished positions at famous research universities.

Doug never wrote back; academia was the only language he loathed. No one understood. They could go on and on about linguistic diversity, loss of cultural perspectives, the ethics and repercussions involved, but there was no way for them to conceive what it really meant. Doug had all the words on the planet at his command and even he couldn’t find the right ones, and his own feelings on the subject were only those of a sympathetic outsider to begin with.

Did perfect fluency make him a native speaker? Did that tip the scale from extinct back to moribund? He posed such thoughts to Shan one time, and she jokingly asked if those were the questions that kept him up at night.

He preferred computers. No guilt.

During the day he taught at the New Mutant Leadership Institute, and although he really did enjoy helping the kids find their way, he still spent most of his time in the computer lab working on online dictionaries and learning software so future generations could study their lost past. If they ever came looking. (He hoped they would—he wanted to have been of some use.)

No language could die as long as he lived. It was something like heroism, then, in an abstract way — how selfish of him to have wanted any more than that.

It wasn’t like his life lacked adventure. Doug went on his first intergalactic diplomacy mission a few weeks after graduating college. He had already accepted a position as a junior professor with Shan at the Institute, but when an official representative of the House of Magnus showed up at his front door and offered a host of privileges for his poor sapien parents in exchange for willing service, saying no wasn’t really an option. As if he would’ve turned down the chance either way.

He spent his twentieth birthday on a spaceship in the Kree Empire, helping to lay the groundwork for an alliance between Earth and the Empire. Even if he only served as an assistant, offering the ceremonial greetings in a flawless accent and keeping the real diplomats from linguistic embarrassment, it was a present like none other to see the entire universe laid out before him.

Upon the delegation’s return to Earth, Magnus himself showed up to personally thank them for their service. He laid a hand on Doug’s shoulder and said, “This is what I wanted, a world where people like you can excel.”

Doug forced a smile and tried to pretend it wasn’t humiliation burning in his chest.

*

“So where are we off to this time?” Doug asked when he arrived at S.W.O.R.D. headquarters.

“We may have misrepresented the mission,” said the agent, leading him through door after door, each more secure than the last, until finally they reached an elevator. “We’re actually going down.”

“Please tell me it isn’t Moloids,” he joked. The agent didn’t bother to respond.

Doug had never been into the lower levels of the complex, but then again he never actually dealt with S.W.O.R.D. very closely at all. He didn’t even have an ID card. They would occasionally outsource unknown and otherwise indecipherable deep space signals to him for interpretation, but he usually only served as a smiling accomplice to distant worlds. Ceremonial diplomacy was serious in its own way, of course, but it had always been more about adventure than…whatever this was.

Prison, by the look of it. The agent brought him to one of the deepest levels and directed him through a hallway lined with containment chambers, most of them blessedly empty. Doug had a sinking suspicion about why he was actually there, and he prayed they weren’t bringing him to interrogate some intergalactic war criminal. Violence was a language he never wanted to learn.

The agent left him in an observation room overlooking the cell below, a large and eerily white room. Curiosity drove Doug to go peer through the glass, regardless of the security cameras he knew were watching his every move. At first he thought that cell, too, was empty. Then he spotted the small huddle of shadows tucked against the wall directly below him, roughly the size of a large dog curled up into a ball.

“Douglas Ramsey?” asked a new voice behind him, firm and direct. He turned to find an outstretched hand leading to a most severe woman gazing at him from behind green glasses. “Agent Brand. Glad to have you.”

Doug returned the handshake, fighting the urge to salute instead. She was clearly more highly ranked than anyone else he’d ever met from the organization thus far, a fact that didn’t bode very well for the mission at hand.

“Glad to be of assistance,” he said, not really glad of anything at the moment, but keenly aware that she wasn’t someone he wanted to make an enemy of.

“Since you’re aware that we employ a great number of interpreters across a vast range of alien languages, I’m sure you’ve already realized this is a…special case.” Agent Brand passed him the standard secrecy agreement, waited for his signature, then traded it for a slim file of documents.

“The specimen in question crash-landed in someone’s backyard a week ago. Our operatives found it snacking on the family dog, but it darted off into traffic before they could apprehend it. After one hell of a highway accident it folded in on itself and hasn’t budged since.”

Doug thumbed through photos of the impact site, the house, the damaged semi truck. The creature was alone long enough to wreak some serious havoc, but it barely managed a bit of haphazard bumbling. Hardly a vicious invader — though the dog probably disagreed.

“It won’t respond to any verbal language,” she continued. “It looks technological, but it doesn’t sync with any of our computer systems or communicate with AI of any kind. Our technopaths have met with similar luck. Most of my subordinates think it’s just a piece of space junk. You are my last option, Mr. Ramsey.”

“What will you do with it?” he asked, pausing on a picture of a garden frozen in silver circuitry.

“The same as with any other extraterrestrial. If it’s dangerous, we’ll study it before deporting it back home. If it’s harmless and can communicate, there are other options.”

Doug held up a picture of the empty doghouse, metallic ash scattered through the grass nearby. “Hasn’t it already proved how dangerous it is?”

“Sure.” Brand walked to the observation window and peered down below, hands clasped behind her back. “But tell me it doesn’t look scared.”

*

“One other thing,” added Agent Brand as she unlocked the cell door. “One of our Majesdanian ambassadors called it a world-devourer, said we’re inviting our own destruction by keeping it here. Nobody meets one and lives, that sort of thing.”

Doug briefly considered what Shan would do if he didn’t come back — be pretty darn pissed, probably, since he rigged up the entire school network himself and doubted anyone else could figure it out. He shrugged, and Agent Brand gave him a weird smirk. He’d always been a damn fool at heart.

The creature didn’t budge when Doug entered the room, so he took the chance to get as close as he could, still as insatiably curious now as he was as a child. It looked like a knot of black wires, some frayed and jagged, the rest hammered smooth. Occasionally the slightest flicker of gold shot across its surface. Doug reached out a tentative hand, but the creature slid away in an instant, flinching back and curling in on itself even tighter.

“Sorry,” Doug said, pulling back his hand. “That was probably rude.” He tucked both hands into his pockets so he wouldn’t be tempted again, then offered his most charming smile. “My name is Doug Ramsey, I’m a teacher here on Earth. That’s what this planet is called.”

“You probably don’t understand me, but that’s okay. I can go on talking forever. It’s kind of my specialty. Maybe you’re like me and you’ll pick it up as we go along. Or you could just speak to me in your own language — I’d listen, whatever it is you have to say. I’m sure we’d have lots to chat about.”

“It must’ve been terrifying to crash like that, especially in the middle of town. Did their dog attack, is that why you… And I heard you got hit by a car after that, just before they dragged you here. Are you okay?”

Doug glanced up and shrugged at the observation booth where Agent Brand stood watching. But he kept talking. First ten minutes, then thirty, then an hour. He talked about whatever he could think of: himself, his childhood, his work. Eventually he found himself complaining about some of his snottiest students, and though he didn’t use any of their real names, he still had to stop himself with a laugh. Getting fired for discussing students with aliens would’ve been pretty pathetic.

He talked about their world, about the House of Magnus leading them into a new age as a mutant utopia, about the weirdest powers he’d ever seen and the most awe-inspiring. He had a laptop brought in so he could show off the most beautiful places on the planet, holding the screen up and hoping the creature had eyes. He talked about music and played his favorite songs from across the globe, Chilean ballads and Tuvan throat-singing. He talked about books, talked about books for so long that he had to ask the agent on rescue duty outside to bring water for his parched, aching throat.

But Doug simply laughed at himself and started blabbing once more. Five hours in, he’d mostly given up hope of getting an answer, but he refused to leave the creature alone in that cold and barren room. Agent Brand wasn’t up in the observation room anymore. If he left, it would mean defeat. It would mean agents swooping in to hack off pieces of the creature for testing, then shooting it back into space once they’d gathered enough of those brutal scientific answers. So he just kept talking. He talked about food, shared secret recipes from the farthest reaches of the planet that he’d never told anyone else. Six hours, seven, ten, thirteen.

When his voice started to fail him at last, Doug shook his head and rasped quietly, “Maybe you do understand me, but you don’t want to answer…”

The creature curled in on itself slightly, as if ashamed of its silence.

“I just wish you’d trust me.” Doug leaned back against the wall, staring sadly at that Gordian Knot of an alien. There wasn’t much more he could do.

“Self is coward.”

Doug’s heart leapt to his throat, mostly in shock—he was proud of himself for biting back a yelp. “No, no you’re not,” he protested, scooting closer on his knees. “Please talk to me.”

“Systems impaired. Lifeglow insufficient.” Its voice was so frail, a faint shiver of metallic sounds impersonating English.

“What do you need?”

It hesitated, trembled, then slunk farther away.

“Just tell me, friend,” Doug pleaded, “Whatever can give you lifeglo— _oh!_ ” The garden, the dog. Organics. “But I can go find you more food, it’s no bother! Why didn’t you just ask?”

“Shamescripts.” The words sounded increasingly forced. “Self consumed sentient caninentity. Caused distressorrowanguish to babyhuman. Self not fit to live.”

“You made a _mistake_. You crash-landed and didn’t know what was okay to eat! It’s not your fault, friend.”

No trace of a mouth or eyes or any sort of facial structure showed anywhere on the creature’s surface. The only expression came from those gold streaks, fainter now, flickering out one by one then sparking back even dimmer than before. “Query: Why does Dougramseyentity appellate ‘friend’ in reference to Self?”

“Well we are friends, aren’t we?” Doug said it with a smile, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. He chuckled awkwardly and rubbed at his neck. “I think I told you more today than I’ve ever told anyone else in my whole life. Plus you still haven’t given me your name, if you’ve got one.”

It chirped a strange noise. On the second try, it smoothed the sounds together until it was almost passable English. “Warlock.”

“Pleased to meet you, Warlock.” He reached out a hand. “Now take what you need.”

“Self cannot. Self could kill you. Self prefers destruction.” Warlock shivered, smaller by the second. “Thank you for friendshipgift, Selfriendougramsey.”

“Warlock,” Doug said firmly, his hand still outstretched, “ _Please_.”

“Dangerous.”

“It’s my choice. Come on, friend.” He smiled around the word, let it fall from his tongue like the purest of promises. “Be brave.”

A thin tendril curled out from Warlock’s huddled form, hesitated a moment longer, then pricked at an outstretched finger.

 _Shan’s going to kill me,_ Doug thought as the world spun, flickered, and burned out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Agent Brand has a lot of questions she'd like answered, but it's a little hard to catch Warlock's attention when he only has eyes for his new best friend in all the universe.

Doug woke to a world of gold, which was rather unsettling to say the least, like going blind in the wrong spectrum. He squinted at the unearthly hue of his raised hands, tinged by the surrounding glow, then rubbed them both over his face and wondered where the heck he was.

What was the protocol for getting trapped under a giant golden bell, again? Shan was the one who let him skip that crisis response refresher course a few months back; if he died the blame was going firmly at her feet.

He could hear angry voices nearby, muffled through some sort of faulty sound-proofing. Maybe they’d notice him if he made enough noise. Still too groggy for real panic, Doug reached out to steady himself against the metal wall, then jerked back in shock as it rippled and whirled under his hand, clinging to his fingers as tenacious as molasses. When he yanked his hand away to break the connection, energy crackled along the wall’s surface in a diffuse spiraling pattern.

_Don’t think alien abduction don’t think alien abduction don’t think alien—but how cool would—don’t think alien abduction._

Just in time to prevent a full and utter panicked breakdown, a little voice behind his ear asked, “You are revived, Selfriendoug? You are okay?”

“Yeah,” Doug croaked, throat all scratchy. The concerned static in that tinny whine brought everything rushing back at once, but it failed to rule out alien abduction entirely. “I’m fine. Uh, Warlock, right? Where are we?”

“Ramsey?” Agent Brand’s voice that time, a good sign. “Still alive in there?”

In an instant the dome collapsed and receded as a wave of living liquid, though Doug was far more startled by what it concealed — a squad of armed guards leveling plasma cannons in his direction, each one straight from a different summer blockbuster. Agent Brand stood halfway between them with a hand raised in ceasefire, her expression indecipherable.

That was _a lot_ of guns. Doug scooted backwards despite himself and opened his mouth to attempt some false bravado, _I hope those phasers are set to stun_ , but a panicked little yelp snuck from his throat instead.

Mortification kicked his reason back into working order, and he chided himself for his reaction. They were all still on Earth in the same containment cell as before. Why would anyone be aiming at him? Obviously they were aiming at—

He whipped his head around to check on Warlock, but that familiar huddle of frayed black was nowhere to be found. Instead he came face to face with a blinding smile, broad and toothy and impossibly pleased. The sleek, golden-skinned humanoid before him radiated such incredible joy that Doug’s heart stuttered in his chest.

The longer Doug sat there staring at him, the closer Warlock inched, proud to be inspected. Shapeshifters were by no means rare, but he’d never seen one quite so…inept. Warlock’s lines were too smooth, skin too stiff and joints too limber. His face appeared human enough but lacked any distinguishing features, closer to a computer-generated compilation than anything naturally occurring. Yet the clothes he rendered with incredible detail, all done up as a page boy in blues and yellows with a dashing red cape; Doug recognized the outfit from the cover of a fantasy novel he showed Warlock earlier. Light danced happily along the circuitry stitched across his form like fine embroidery, and though that first smile was awkward, it certainly got the idea across.

“Please to meet you too, Selfriendoug,” said the alien. His voice was joyful and so much smoother than before. By now Warlock was so close that Doug could see every flicker of emotion on his new face — an overabundance of them, as if even his micro-expressions had micro-expressions.

“Soldierbeings believed Self had hurt you, but you are fine because Self will _never_ hurt you. Self makes this promise.”

“Um, yeah,” Doug mumbled. Part of him was still convinced that he was trapped in a very strange dream world where the concept of personal space never really stuck. “A-Agent Brand, if you’d call off the guards? My apologies for frightening you, but I think everything is under control.”

“I can see that.” Her clipped tone made it very clear that _control_ was the opposite of what was going on, but she gave the signal and sent the troops marching out of the room nevertheless. “So,” she said, crossing her arms and staring at him expectantly.

Doug hadn’t the foggiest idea of what she expected him to do now, and every time he glanced back at Warlock he discovered the alien had crept another couple inches closer, still beaming bright and eager as ever. He adjusted himself into a new seating position to reclaim a little breathing room, but Warlock didn’t take the hint.

“Agent Brand, meet Warlock!” he tried, gesturing between them. “Warlock, meet Agent Brand!”

Judging by her incredulous huff, that wasn’t the proper response. But it succeeded as a cry for help.

“Explain your business here on Earth, tinker-toy,” she snapped.

Warlock’s expression fell eerily flat and his copper eyes flicked over to Doug for guidance.

“It’s okay, she’s a friend. She’s the one who brought me here.” That last part was a bit of a guess, but it did the trick.

“Self is exile. Sustenance insufficient in spacedark. Self ended up here.” Warlock gave an exaggerated shrug, swinging his elbows and tilting his head the exact same way Doug did—a natural mimic. Charming and frightening were two words Doug had never used in tandem before, but there wasn’t any other way to explain the effect.

The alien bowed his head and wrung his hands so powerfully that his fingers stretched out of shape. “Self wishes to express extreme shameregret for consuming caninentity. It was most brave and only attempting to guard its proxyfamily.”

“And what are you, exactly?” asked Brand, forging right ahead before Doug could offer a comforting word.

“Self does not know.” Warlock squirmed. This time his expression held a completely different shade of guilt. He glanced back at Doug with a pitiful pout and added, “Self did not fit in.”

Brand eyed him a moment longer, then walked over to pick up the laptop from earlier. “Fill this out and then we’ll talk options.” She brought up an empty database file and passed him the computer, scowling when Warlock immediately fused his hand to the screen and synced perfectly with the system. He could’ve done that the whole time.

“Ramsey, a word.”

When he didn’t immediately scramble after her, she grabbed him by the arm and hauled him out of the room. The door slammed shut behind them. Doug hadn’t wanted to make an enemy of her, but that plan seemed to have gone terribly awry.

“You need to leave.”

“Excuse me?” He wrenched his arm away from her iron grip—or tried to, at least. Cripes, that would leave a bruise. “You’re the one who asked me here—”

“And now I’m asking you to _leave_ ,” she snapped.

“Not without an explanation.”

They wanted to chop Warlock up for parts, Doug was absolutely certain of it now. An alien exile meant no one would ever come looking. Talking options with aliens, ha! What a fool he’d been to believe their little spiel in the first place. S.W.O.R.D. was just like all the rest, willing to carve up the entire universe if it meant making life easier for Homo Superior. Everyone knew what delight those scientists took in fiddling with sapien genetics, and imagining them getting their hands on Warlock was enough to set Doug’s skin crawling.

Agent Brand swore in a language he’d never heard, a language that didn’t even work on his tongue, and cut the certainty right out from under him. He didn’t know exactly what she said, since there hadn’t been nearly enough of it for his powers to kick in properly, but he was fairly certain it went something like _save me from this idiot_. Except more…explicit.

“You’re falling for his game, Ramsey. Doe eyes and a doofy smile and you’re already wrapped around his little finger. You’re not cut out for this work.”

“You…you were threatening to shoot him, it’s no wonder he turned to me,” Doug argued. Her accusation was unsettling, but Warlock’s mimicry didn’t necessarily imply an ulterior motive.

“We _did_ shoot him. It didn’t do a goddamn thing.” She shook her head at him like he was a naive little child, judging him for his compassion. “That thing in there is far more dangerous than you or I know, and it’s lying through its teeth. Are you really not picking up any warning signs at all?”

Charming and frightening—one of them was his own instincts talking but now he wasn’t sure which. Doug crossed his arms in an attempt to appear unmoved by her admittedly convincing argument and turned to peer through the window into the containment cell.

Inside, he found Warlock sitting cross-legged on the floor with the computer in his lap, the same position Doug took up hours earlier during story-time. But there was on heartrending little difference.

Now and then sapien parents visited the Institute to try and secure a spot for their kids. Shan couldn’t do anything for them. The government whisked kids away the moment their mutant genes kicked in, and no one could say where they’d end up. Those parent meetings were stressful and horrible for everyone involved, and Doug considered himself mighty lucky to play no part in them. But sometimes he passed the kids waiting out in the hallway, and he never forgot the miserable hunch of their shoulders while the rest of the world decided their fate.

Warlock’s shoulders slumped the very same way, and he hadn’t copied that from Doug.

“How much longer are you planning to keep him here?” he asked stiffly as he turned back toward Brand.

“We’re talking about a potential hazard to all life on Earth. It’s not that simple.”

“What hazard? Half the mutants on this planet are more dangerous than he’ll ever be and you know it.”

She tipped her head and stared at him over the rim of her glasses, patience finally exhausted. “Are you an alien rights activist now?”

“ _Apparently_.”

The word dropped from Doug’s lips more venomously than he intended, and a certain clarity settled over him. It was over. Bridges burned. He would never get another xenolinguistic gig in his life. Farewell intergalactic adventures, farewell final frontier, it was all fun while it lasted…

Agent Brand stared at him a moment longer, then swiped her keycard and opened the cell for him to step back inside. He couldn’t tell for sure because of her glasses, but she almost seemed…impressed? Sadistically amused was probably more accurate, intrigued by the spectacle of his abruptly imploding career.

“Self finished!” Warlock announced when they reentered the room. He rose to his feed and bounded over to hand the laptop back to Brand. His knees and ankles didn’t bend in the proper places, but his cape rippled dramatically behind him as if blown by an imaginary breeze. “Redflags did not occur. Query: Did Self answer correctly?”

The silence that followed was as cold and calculating as Brand’s gaze, her face locked into a diplomatic expression that gave no hint of her true thoughts. She scrolled through the file, and every time she paused on a line Warlock glanced back at Doug with frantic concern.

“I’m sure you did fine,” Doug offered miserably as helplessness roiled in his gut. He was as good as fired for his insolence. There wasn’t anything more he could do. Hoping Warlock couldn’t yet tell when someone was lying, he added, “It’ll all work out — Agent Brand is good people.”

“Never pegged you for a brown-noser.” Brand snapped shut the laptop and tucked it under one arm. “I think we’re done here.”

Her tone made the hair prickle at the back of his neck, and Doug cast an anxious look at the door, fully expecting those armed guards to come rushing back in on that command.

Yet the only immediate movement was Warlock, bounding forward to happily impose upon Brand’s own bubble of personal space. “Self is done?” he asked eagerly.

“No red flags.”

He took that as the utmost praise. His eyes brightened with eagerness, a hopeful grin spreading across his face, and after a moment spent gathering his courage he pressed, “Query: Self can now go home with Selfriendoug?”

“Oh,” she hummed, voice unnaturally cheery as she looked back at Doug and dared him to put his money where his mouth was, “Is _that_ the plan?”

Doug gaped at them, blindsided by the request. His tentative relief over Warlock’s apparent freedom was quickly swamped by panic. He hated being put on the spot, and no request had ever been more outrageous than that. This was only a weekend job, he didn’t have spare days to devote to whatever they were asking, let alone weeks or months — he didn’t even have time for a pet, for goodness’ sake!

But then Warlock’s smile faltered, and Doug caught the exact moment the alien realized his mistake. The corners of his mouth tightened, his eyebrows sloped gently off to the sides, and all that hope was marred by tired acceptance and a bitter hint of self-loathing.

“Self was only joking. Ha-ha-ha,” Warlock amended woefully, just as Doug blurted, “Yes, that’s right.”

Brand smirked and swept past the thoroughly startled alien beside her, stalking over to Doug. “You’ll host him?”

“Yes.”

“Feed him? Teach him?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll be fully responsible for him.”

“I am aware what yes means,” Doug snapped. He wasn’t about to let her bully him into recanting; his conscience was doing a good enough job of that already.

 _A world-devourer_ , screeched one panicked line of thought. _Think of your career_ , yelled his ingrained sense of responsibility. _What makes you prepared for this?_ , asked his self-doubt, preparing to launch into a crippling analysis of all his flaws. _Aliens_ , whispered his curiosity, drowned out by the rest.

The look Warlock gave him hushed them all. He stared at Doug with such faith, like he’d never known kindness a day in his life and could never hope to find it twice, and Doug couldn’t bear to let that fade from his eyes for an instant.

“If he wants to come stay with me for a while, then that’s what we’ll do,” Doug said. “God knows my house is big enough for two.”

“You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.” Agent Brand flashed him a carnivore’s grin, all teeth.

“ _Clearly_ not,” he mumbled. He couldn’t read her at all, let alone decipher her sudden change of heart. Everything moved so fast that even his suspicions could barely keep up.

She motioned to Warlock and said, “Take him and go.”

Doug opened his mouth to ask what she was up to, what the stipulations and fine print were, because surely there were forms and protocol and endless miles of red tape and hadn’t she just told him it wasn’t this simple at all, but before he could get a word in Brand went and held open the door.

“Before I change my mind, Ramsey.”

*

After the second time Warlock nicked his head on the side of a passing car, Doug rolled up the window and shrugged off the ensuing chorus of _sorry, sorry_. He was far too exhausted to actually chide Warlock for anything. If he could get them home in one piece, that would be success enough. Proper alien-wrangling could wait until morning.

Lost in wonder, Warlock poured his face against the glass and watched the world whip by. Now and then he piped up with a new and astonishing discovery, his enthusiasm never dulled by Doug’s increasingly sleepy responses.

“Exclamation: How rich with lifeglow Earthplanet is!”

“So many tall treeplants! Decorative or edible? Decorativedible.”

“Wheelshuttles are not alive, but consume considerable lifeglow…”

“Skycolor changed. Currently spacedark — is dayblue manufactured? Do other colors occur?”

Doug pulled into the driveway at last, turned off the car, and slumped forward to rest his forehead against the steering wheel. Warlock dipped his head down to peer at him with immense concern.

“You’re not going to kill me or drain all my lifeglow in my sleep, right?” Doug asked in a small voice, resigned to the inevitability of such a fate. Maybe that was Brand’s intent: a glorified I Told You So.

“Self will _**never** _ hurt you.”

Aliens. Living with aliens. Considering the amount of science fiction Doug had devoured over the years, it shouldn’t have taken that long to sink in. He put a hand on Warlock’s shoulder and gave him a friendly squeeze. “I believe you.”

Somehow it managed to reassure them both.

“Selfriendoug,” Warlock chirped as they stepped out of the car, “Self possesses no referent for sleep. Define?”

Foreboding stopped Doug in his tracks. “You don’t need to, err, recharge now and then?”

“Equivalent to lifeglow replenishment?”

“No, that’s eating. Sleeping is…” Shoot, if he didn’t sleep, what the heck was Doug going to do with him at night? “Do you remember what happened earlier when I blacked out?” What _had_ happened earlier? Everything was a blur.

“Self worried you turned Off,” Warlock said quietly, hovering close behind Doug’s shoulder as he fumbled with his keys.

“That definitely isn’t sleep either.”

At last Doug managed to open the front door, and he let out a sigh of exhausted victory as he stepped inside. It had been the longest day of his life by far, not to mention the most eventful. “Home sweet home,” he mumbled under his breath.

Warlock didn’t make a peep, and Doug turned to find him lingering outside. His eyes were wide and worried like he expected the house itself to reject him if he dared step past the threshold.

“Problem?”

“Negative,” Warlock answered quickly, but still he tarried. He clenched the sides of his cape in his hands, worrying at the pseudo-fabric, then darted forward and skipped over the doorstep in a single bound. He beamed at Doug as he announced, “Home sweet home!”

Doug returned the grin, but honestly all he wanted at that point was _bed sweet bed_. He couldn’t very well leave Warlock to his own devices all night, however. The television was far too untrustworthy without supervision, since even PBS lapsed into agonizing war documentaries with astounding frequency, and the internet was a nightmare of even grander proportions. But there had to be something he could give Warlock to do while he caught some much needed shut-eye…

_Aha! And Shan said that room was going to waste._

Doug promised to give Warlock a full tour in the morning, but for now he showed him the kitchen and made sure he knew where to replenish his lifeglow. Next was the living room, though the couch elicited a strong warning since the springs were halfway to lethal. Finally he lead Warlock to the little library he kept in a side room down the hall, its walls overflowing with dearly beloved books that Doug never found the time to read. He pointed out a few shelves of atlases and coffee table books from foreign countries, mostly presents from a dear friend — the other diplomats always gave her fancy books that she re-gifted to him whenever she visited.

“So stay here tonight, okay? Comfy chair. Books with fancy pictures. Earth knowledge.” It was simply an independent version of the talk Doug gave him earlier, but hopefully it would keep him occupied for at least a few hours.

Warlock’s shoulders sagged. “Please do not turn Off.”

“Not Off. _Sleep_. Sleep is good, sleep is excellent.” Rambling was a leading sign of his impending collapse. “Everything will be fine, I promise. I just need to lie down for a bit.”

“…Understood,” he said sadly, like he expected Doug to disappear for good the moment he left his sight.

There wasn’t much helping that right then, but Doug could at least leave his door open for one night. “I’ll be right upstairs. Goodnight, Warlock.” He waited a few moments, then added, “You’re supposed to say it back, buddy.”

“Oh! Goodnight, Selfriendoug.” Only a few hours later and already Warlock’s smiles came free and easy.

Doug might have been in over his head, but he took that smile as a victory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit to [usscamelot](http://usscamelot.tumblr.com) for the art this chapter!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warlock bonds with fictional stories, but Doug may not have chosen those stories very wisely.
> 
> S.W.O.R.D. doesn't choose its operatives very wisely, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh, this fic was originally just a cute selfsoulfriends AU, but then I got frustrated over the lack of Shan that I'd planned into it. And so I spent the last few months fiddling with plots and subplots and now this is basically an alien romcom. Shan will finally, _finally_ show up for real next chapter and be a main character thereafter.
> 
> This is one of those chapters that needed to initiate a whole bunch of later plot threads, and got a bit unwieldy as a result. References to Star Trek and The Little Prince abound. 
> 
> It is also illustrated! There ought to be illustrations every other chapter or so, if I've planned things correctly.  
> Credit to [usscamelot](http://usscamelot.tumblr.com/) of tumblr for the art this chapter!

The phone rang and rang and rang.

It blared even in Doug’s dreams, echoing louder and louder until he finally freed an arm from his blanket cocoon and smacked it off the bedside table. The ringing continued. With a groan, he rolled halfway off the bed and groped for it miserably, cursing the persistence of his caller. He found it on the very last ring, snatched it up, and pressed it against his ear.

“Whuh?”

“ _Where are you?_ ” Shan hissed back at him. She hadn’t used that tone in years, not since her younger brother moved out for college.

“Job,” he grumbled blearily. “Had a job, geez. What’s so important on a Sunday morning?”

She paused for a moment of chilly, disbelieving silence, then said, “It isn’t Sunday.”

“What?” Doug jerked the phone away from his ear and stared down at the time and date. Monday. 10:28am on a Monday morning. “—Oh no. Oh no, oh no.”

“Ohhhh yes, Professor Perfect Attendance.”

He groaned, rubbing a hand over his eyes as six and a half years of trust and responsibility spiraled down the drain. “I’m—I’m so sorry.” How on earth was it Monday? Had he slept a whole day away? Did his alien guest actually sneak up and feast on his lifeglow during the night? “Did you get a sub?” he asked hopefully, trying to chase his own worries away.

“Do you _think_ I got a sub in time?” Shan snapped. Her frustrated sigh had him shriveling up under the blankets, trying to hide even when she couldn’t see him. “…It’s fine, I have Paige watching your classes. Will you be in at lunch?”

“I—no, no I really shouldn’t.” Doug had promised to be responsible for his new house guest come hell or high water or royally pissed best friend, and it was way too soon to leave Warlock on his own. Already Doug was dreading the thought of leaving his bed to venture downstairs and find what new chaos awaited him. Sleeping until Tuesday was a much better plan. “I’m so sorry.”

“…Doug, are you okay?”

He smiled at the change in her voice, from boss to bestie in an instant. “I’m fine. The job ran long and I still have—work—to finish up.” Understatement of the year. “I should’ve given you fair warning.”

“I’ll swing by tonight to help, and then you can tell me the whole story.”

“It’s classified,” Doug covered hastily. She would never approve of the risks he was taking, and if she’d learned anything over the years, it was to distrust his intuition. “But that means a lot. Thank you.”

Another of those cringe-worthy sighs of disapproval. “Alright. Just keep me in the loop, okay?”

Doug nodded uselessly, which only served to remind him how strangely exhausted he was. _Phone conversation mean body language bad, verbal language good. More sleep required. Alien-wrangling urgent._ With a timely yawn, he asked, “Actually, uh, can you do me a huge favor?”

“What is it?”

“…Find me a sub for the rest of the week?” Doug begged in a rush, voice raising so hopefully on the last word that it nearly cracked. A week would be more than enough to get Warlock settled in, to train some basic social customs into him, and work out a long-term plan of some kind. It would have to be enough.

No answer.

Frantic, he continued, “I know it’s beyond last minute, but something has come up and I have all those vacation days I never used so I thought it would be okay if I used them now, I mean what if I doubled them up and used two for each day this week since it’s so much trouble and—”

“I’ll see you bright and early next Monday morning. And _on time._ ”

“You’re the best, Shan. I mean that.”

She hung up on him without another word. The week would do them both some good: time for Shan’s frustration to wane, and time for Doug to invent a suitable apology present. But other duties were more pressing at the moment, so with one last glower at the sunlight streaming in through his curtains, Doug finally hauled himself out of bed and went to get dressed.

He made it halfway downstairs before he realized he forgot to request _paid_ vacation time.

At least the house seemed to be in perfect order with no immediate signs of destruction and not even a peep from the library. There wasn’t even any proof that the past weekend had really happened. In hindsight, Shan had every reason to be worried — and for a terrible moment Doug was worried too, a twist in his gut saying he’d peek in the library and find no one there at all. He tarried outside in the hall, knocked once, and opened the door.

Warlock was right where Doug had left him, curled up in the cushy old armchair with a massive encyclopedia cradled in his lap. His new outfit leaned toward nobility of the ancient sort, yesterday’s cape wrapped snug around him like a toga and sprigs of laurel plastered along the sides of his head where his ears would be. Clearly the overabundance of Roman texts had caught his eye, but hopefully only for the pretty pictures and not the aggressive imperialism. He remained oblivious to Doug’s presence, focused on skimming his hands over each page as if scanning them for future use.

But that wasn’t what had Doug frozen in the doorway. The shelves were barren, the floor littered in a haphazard cityscape of books with spiraling towers neatly stacked, a library disemboweled. A feeble protective instinct awoke within him at the sight of books so mistreated, but the two dozen _readers_ curdled all his thoughts to mush. A tiny golden creature poured over each open book, running its telescopic eye across the words before gingerly turning the page and setting to work scanning the next one. A thin tendril extended from each reader, twisting and twirling all the way back to the armchair where it fused back into its master’s foot. Data-mining. Or farming, rather, with each book a fertile plot for Warlock to suck nutrients from.

One of the sprouts finished the last page of its book, closed the back cover, and ran itself along the spine in appreciation of a story well told. Then it squirmed underneath with a quick shift to a paper-thin form and lifted the completed work to the top of the tower to its right. In its search for the next text it finally noticed Doug. Stretching over to greet him, the single eye blinked _hello!_ in Morse code before scrunching up in delight and reaching out to affectionately pat him on the nose.

In bewildered silence, Doug watched as the sprout passed on the news, darting from neighbor to neighbor until all the gossiping sprouts were staring up at him with that strangely pleased glint in their eerie eyes. Then, in an instant, they snapped back into Warlock’s core and took the knowledge of his presence with them.

“Selfriendoug!” Warlock gasped, rolling to his feet like a crashing wave. He laid the encyclopedia down on the chair and clutched another, smaller book so tightly against his chest that it disappeared from sight. With his treasure secure, Warlock took one giant step over the mess of books and sidled up next to Doug, as blithely indifferent to personal space as he had been the day before. “You have recovered from sleepstate! Joy! Jubilation!”

“Good morning to you, too.”

From this close, Doug could tell the alien was different from the day before. Taller, maybe. His facial features more defined. The circuitry on top of his otherwise bald head stuck out more starkly, a tuft here or there, glitches in the smooth lines that almost resembled hair. Doug absentmindedly ran a hand through his own golden locks; anxiety always trapped his attention on those tiny details.

“How long did I sleep?” he asked, eying the books. “Did you read _all_ of them?”

Warlock tilted his head at an impossible angle to look at the destruction he’d caused. “11 hours, 16 minutes, and approximately 57 seconds elapsed between doorclose and dooropen. This time was insufficient for perusal of all readingmaterial. Regret. Earthplanet is fascinating!”

He hesitated when Doug didn’t encourage his exuberance, then followed his host’s baleful look back to the books. “Oh. Self was improper houseguest.”

As Warlock reached out an arm, his fingers sprouted and branched into a maze of interlocking threads, a complex root system that snatched up each book and hastily delivered it back to its original location. The odd, graceful rhythm of the scene reminded Doug of a Disney movie — books flying through the air on golden strings. He whistled in appreciation.

Warlock turned back to stare at him and responded with a chirp of the same pitch. Then a more urgent one. The third chirp hung in the air, a warbling birdsong without answer.

“…And I’ve been an improper host,” Doug offered at last. He hadn’t the slightest idea what Warlock expected of him, but his own stomach had expectations enough. “Breakfast?”

On the way down the hall, Doug planned a breakfast feast. He rarely had the time or energy to manage much more than orange juice and some toast in the morning, but a guest was the perfect excuse for something spectacular. The fresher the ingredients, the more lifeglow content, right? Pancakes were a classic and the refrigerator definitely had some blackberries to complement them. Fruit salad would be a quick fix and show off a range of tastes as well. But it was the omelets that he devoted the most thought to, contemplating the perfect mix of ingredients all the way into the kitchen and over to the fridge.

The completely, utterly, inexplicably empty fridge.

Only a few containers remained: a glass pitcher of water, a plastic storage container or two stacked neatly in a corner without a trace of food remaining inside. Not even a stick of butter on the side shelves. Doug yanked open the freezer and stared despondently into the icy wasteland within.

No crumbs in the bread box. No fruit on the counter. Even the cupboards had been sacked overnight, mixes devoured and cans carved open and sucked dry.

“…Consumablestorage has not respawned edibles?” Warlock asked quietly from behind him.

Doug gazed out over his impeccably clean kitchen like a king surveying the ruins of his kingdom. “That’s…not how it works…”

Warlock took two steps backwards in shame.

It was his own fault. When Doug pointed out the kitchen the night before, he’d called it a lifeglow refueling station or somesuch and offered it all to his guest. That wasn’t a mistake he intended to repeat.

Still, there had to be _something_ in the back of his cupboards. Doug stood on his tiptoes to try and peer into the top shelf, then gave in and climbed up onto the counter so he could get a better view. At the very, very back he spotted a few untouched cans. His victory was short lived, however, when he realized his precious treasure amounted to canned ravioli and an unused log of jellied cranberry from last Thanksgiving.

It was like college all over again.

Resigned to his fate, Doug opened the cranberry can and wiggled a knife around the circumference until he finally managed to pry the gelatinous blob out onto a plate. He sliced it in two and transferred one half onto another plate, then pushed it towards Warlock. It sat there, jiggling and wiggling in silence, the most unappetizing breakfast in the entire universe.

“…This is not sustenance,” Warlock concluded in a small voice.

Doug’s laughter broke so swift and sudden that his chest felt near to bursting. “It really, really isn’t,” he choked, dropping his head to the table as he gave up all attempts at recovering himself. He laughed so hard that Warlock panicked and began chirping birdsong again as he reached out to stroke soothingly at his friend’s tussled hair.

Food was a minor setback. A trip to the grocery store would put everything to right, but they’d hold off on that for a day or two while Warlock found his bearings. In the meantime they’d just have to get takeout.

 

*

 

By the time the doorbell rang, Doug was halfway to ravenous. He practically threw open the door in his haste to collect his meal and nearly tripped over the small box sitting just outside on his doorstep. The delivery girl raised an eyebrow. He tipped her double so she’d forget his clumsiness.

“Query: Assistance required?”

Her other eyebrow shot up at the sound of that inhuman voice, unmistakably metallic with just a hint of static. Robotic, even. Doug watched in horror as a quiet acceptance fell over her face, and he shoved a twenty into her hand and retreated into the house before she got any more ideas about the hinky personal robot assistant he most certainly did not have.

“I’ve got it handled!” he called back to Warlock as he hauled the bags inside. Doug had ordered enough takeout to last two days at the least, and since Warlock assured him he wouldn’t need another lifeglow boost until next week, this time his meals would be safe. He dumped the bags on the kitchen table and set about dividing his brunch from his reserves, organizing it all before he finally let himself eat.

At last only the mystery box remained. Completely blank at first glance, it caught the light as Doug turned it about in his hands and a S.W.O.R.D. logo flashed. Great. Inside he found a perfectly ordinary Blackberry, and as if that didn’t draw up images of secret agents and spy games on its own, the phone quickly warmed in his hand, burned his fingerprints into its memory, and booted up all on its own.

**_Identity confirmed._ **

The screen flashed the logo once more, the blade spinning slowly as the program initiated, and then the menu appeared. It was nearly as barren as his kitchen. Lacking all the usual extraneous trappings of a cell phone, the only icons visible were for messaging and audiovisual recording. At last a folder popped up as well, and Doug’s heart dropped to his knees when he saw the files within.

They wanted him to spy on Warlock. Crestfallen, Doug scrolled through the tests and reports they demanded of him. Some were as simple as a request for species designation, others as invasive as a psychological profile in excruciating detail.

Doug returned to the menu and found a new message waiting, as well as a new icon labeled Panic Button. He opted for the message instead.

**_Ramsey. Here’s your fine print._ **

“Food will lose optimal temperature quality,” Warlock warned sternly, drifting over to join him.

Doug shoved the phone into his pocket. “Yeah, yeah. Hold on a sec.” He couldn’t spy. He didn’t have the mental fortitude for a life of lies — he’d barely managed to dodge Shan’s questions earlier that morning! He didn’t even like spy movies! Never mind the suffocating guilt and shame that would accompany actively betraying Warlock like that. It wasn’t simply a matter of sharing his secrets, either. They were clearly eager to discover a way to _neutralize_ him.

This probably wasn’t the kind of panic that big red menu button was made for.

The plate rattled on the counter-top as one long golden finger tapped at it pointedly. “Selfriendoug’s abdominal organset has resumed grumpgrowl. Please commence replenishment.”

“Right.” Doug shoveled down the first spoonful of curry. “Replenishment in progress.”

Warlock beamed back at him.

After a few bites, Doug slowed down enough to ask, “You said you’re in exile, didn’t you? So you’re not about to report back to the mothership with all our weaknesses?”

“Query: Mothership?”

“…Are you spying on us?”

“Replenishment incomplete,” Warlock responded vaguely. He tapped at the plate again until Doug resumed his meal, then continued, “Self read of this custom. It is…new. Self’s people have no need for spies. Knowledge of foreign species is inconsequential.”

They all tasted the same.

With a grin, Doug laid down his spoon and held out his pinkie finger. “Promise?”

“Affirmative.” Warlock mirrored his gesture, and Doug curled their little fingers together.

“Good.” Doug reached into his pocket, pulled out the mysterious Blackberry, and carelessly tossed it onto the table. “Because I make a real crap spy, too.”

He didn’t even last a full ten minutes.

“The folks at S.W.O.R.D. want me to collect data on you. We’re pretty big on the whole _knowledge of foreign species_ deal here, so I understand where they’re coming from, but… Warlock, if you’re not here to harm us, then I’m not about to teach someone how to harm you.”

Doug waggled his spoon as he spoke, both to emphasize his point and distract himself from the matter at hand. If he was open with Warlock, maybe Warlock would be open with him. But then he really _would_ know all those dirty little secrets that the agency was so eager to learn, and what if they decided to take that knowledge by force?

“If I don’t tell them anything at all, they’ll get suspicious real fast. So I thought you could help me come up with something,” he finished with a sheepish look.

Warlock slowly tilted his head. “Self can destroy transmission device.”

“That won’t solve anything, buddy. Either I send in the reports or…they send someone to have us whacked.” Doug sliced a thumb across his neck, and Warlock’s eyes went wide in horror. “But if we send the wrong reports, they won’t be able to tell the difference. See?”

“…Comprehension. You wish Self to lie.”

“No! No, you be you and _I’ll_ do the lying.”

The same mystified look from yesterday crept onto Warlock’s face, like Doug was a treasured artifact that held every answer, unique in all the universe. It didn’t help in the slightest. What they really needed was a second alien, so Doug could just report on that instead of on Warlock, or better yet a whole bunch of aliens. But where was he supposed to find them? S.W.O.R.D. would have copious notes about any extraterrestrial life on Earth, and it wasn’t like there were a lot of other species just lying around waiting to be—

Bingo.

“Warlock. Couch. Now.” Doug grabbed his plate and high-tailed it into the living room, formulating his genius plan as he went.

He didn’t need to invent aliens of his own to lie about. There were plenty of them just lying around on the shelves under his TV, recorded on those dusty old VHS tapes he’d hoarded long after human programming went off the air. The old shows weren’t banned, but they certainly weren’t encouraged, just like everything else that lacked sufficient mutant representation. Even Shan didn’t have a clue about the series when they first met, and she knew _everything_.

“Query…?” Warlock called as he poked his head into the room. The sudden change in direction had confused him, and since he’d been warned against the couch the night before, he was reluctant to sit on it without further direction.

It took Doug a moment to sweet talk his trusty VCR, but then everything started up perfectly. He sat down on the couch and patted urgently at the seat next to him until Warlock joined him. “Welcome to the world of science fiction, Warlock. The Final Frontier! Well, for you space isn’t so exciting, I guess, but there’s so much more to it, trust me.”

 

*

 

Warlock trusted him for twenty-five episodes, shooed him off to bed, and trusted him for a dozen more. Hour by hour, Warlock crept closer to the television, his fascination only growing, and by daybreak he’d mapped the VCR and manufactured his own. He spent the wee hours of morning methodically popping the old tapes into his chest and copying the audiovisual data within.

The books had been fascinating depositories of anatomical, geographical, historical, and scientific knowledge, but the tapes were _enthralling_. His people never thought much of storytelling, relegating it to the mindless chatter of other sentients, but here were stories of whimsy and wonder, characters that he adored more than almost everyone he’d ever met, Goodness and Justice and Mercy, and heroes to stand in defense and defiance.

Warlock couldn’t even wait to watch the episodes one by one, pouring over a dozen at a time and tripping happily over his self-created incoherency. He barely noticed when Doug slumped back downstairs around noon, and it took the loud clatter of a plate on the kitchen counter for him to startle back to attention.

“Morning salutations!” Warlock leaped over the back of the couch and rushed to the kitchen, eager to share his newfound enthusiasm.

“Mor—oh, _wow_. Looking sharp, partner.”

 

 

Beaming, Warlock gave a little spin then stretched out his arms so Doug could see the intricate embroidery on the sleeves of his Starfleet uniform. He’d given himself the blues of a science officer and the rank insignia of a Lieutenant Commander, and the gold of his head and hands shone ever more brightly for the contrast.

“So you had a fun night, I take it?” Doug was painfully pleased with Warlock’s successful indoctrination, and he couldn’t stop grinning as he scrounged up some breakfast. They needed to go grocery shopping later, but it could wait an hour or two.

“ _Affirmative!_ ” Warlock plopped down on the kitchen table, swinging his legs and sighing happily. “Self’s people have no concept of heroism. Self finds it _wonderful_. Humans are _wonderful_.”

Doug flinched and slammed the fridge shut, considering his next words carefully. “You can’t call us all humans, Warlock. It isn’t politically correct.”

“Query…?”

On second thought, his choice of First Encounter viewing material might not have been the greatest idea. “The characters in the show were human, Homo Sapien. But people like me are mutants, Homo Superior.” Doug cringed even as he said it. _People like me. Homo Superior._ If he could tweak just one Latin classification, that would be it.

This was far too complicated a political and social issue for breakfast, let alone for Warlock’s very first week of Earth investigation. At the school they made sure the children knew all the unspoken rules and norms — made sure they’d recognize them, in hope they’d dismantle them someday. One couldn’t break the rules unless one knew them first. But he couldn’t imagine indoctrinating Warlock into _that_ muck. What was he to do? Should he explain the way things were? The way they used to be? The way he wished they were?

_Do they arrest people for turning aliens into sap-sympathizers?_

Hunching his shoulders in shame, Doug took the coward’s way out. For now. “I told you about all those awesome mutations, remember?”

“Recollection. But they were not present in the show, so Self thought…”

“It’s fairly old. There’s, uh, they actually went back and made a new one with only mutants.” _And it’s a piece of crap,_ he finished to himself. _It’ll never get a cent from me, no sir._ “It’s just a really touchy subject. I think it’s best if you don’t use either word for now. Okay?”

Warlock nodded slowly. He’d picked up on his friend’s incredible unease, but didn’t understand the reason in the slightest. “Self will call you Earthbeings.”

“ _People_ is fine, pal.”

“Everyone is people. You are Earthbeings. You are very strange. And wonderful.”

“Thanks for the approval,” Doug chuckled. He fiddled with the spy phone in his pocket as he listened to the unending fountain of Warlock’s excitement. By the sound of it, his new housemate had devoured every single season overnight. It was a long while before he managed to change the subject. “So if we’re Earthbeings, what does that make you?”

Warlock’s mouth snapped shut at once, but he kept talking despite himself. He’d only ever been mimicking that mysterious mouth flapping anyway. “Request for Self’s planet of origin?” His hand drifted up to rest over the center of his chest as he considered the question then blurted, “Asteroid B-612.”

“Huh. Is that by our numbering or your numbering or…”

The lie had slipped right past him.

“For spygame,” Warlock explained with a twinkle in his eyes, “Tell them: Asteroid B-612. Exactly that.”

The very first requested report wasn’t too demanding. Name, Warlock. Age, incalculable. Appearance, variable. Doug ended up typing _variable_ a heck of a lot, enjoying every instance more than the last — these weren’t even lies, just insufferably annoying truths. At last he’d narrowed it down to a few blank boxes.

“Species name?” asked Doug, looking up from his phone. “I don’t have to give them the real one, of course.”

A flash of anxiety struck through Warlock, there and gone as quick as lightning. He grumbled something in that scratchy language Doug still hadn’t heard enough of to translate, then frowned and repeated it to himself a few times, chopping out the sounds that wouldn’t work in a human mouth. “Technarchy.”

“The Technarchy, great.” He typed it in backwards on a whim, fiddling with the letters until it spelled _Ychranchet_ instead. That sounded like a mysterious alien species, didn’t it? _Maybe I should add a glottal stop…_

The longer Doug went without demanding real answers from him, the more Warlock wanted to tell him everything. His circuits shivered along the back of his head, instinct pushing through, but he fought back the urge. He didn’t have to be a Technarch anymore — he could be whatever he wanted! All Warlock had to do was make something up and then believe it, just like the make-believe on the show.

“Like on show,” Warlock explained suddenly, beaming across the table. “Technarchy = Changeling Borgs!”

The phone slipped from Doug’s hands and clattered to the floor.

Warlock ducked under the table. “Not Borg! Self is not! Phalanx are! Like worker bees! Worker Borgs!”

“ _Worker Borgs?_ ” Doug choked, caught halfway between laughter and horror.

Two little eye-stalks peeked back over the table’s edge, and a third slowly pushed the phone back towards him. “Assimilation bad. Spying bad. Self swears. But…but shapeshifters not so different from Self. Reconsideration: Self does not sleep in bucket. Comparison may be faulty. Sorry, sorry.”

“Hey, nothing to be sorry about.” Doug nudged at him under the table, tapping his foot lightly against Warlock’s side until he finally crawled back into his seat, still radiating anxiety. “I’m glad you found something you could relate to.”

Warlock’s smile shone bright, and that itch at the back of his head disappeared.

“But I’m totally telling them you sleep in a bucket.” _The specimen in question must revert to a liquid state for eight hours every day…_ That would make for a darn good weakness. Doug added it to the report and submitted it before Warlock could complain.

“Self will inform mothership that your abdominal organset has language of its own.” He mimicked the growl, the surface of his stomach roiling for effect. “Then no one will be fooled by this aggressiondisplay.”

Doug threw back his head and laughed. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d had such fun, exhaustion and frustrations aside. “On that note, we really need a trip to the…consumable depository. You up for leaving the house?”

“…Can Self still be officer?”

“Buddy, you can wear that uniform every day if you want.”


End file.
